by Sarah Jio
Dominic stepped to the sidewalk, and I watched him hold the phone up to his ear as he paced nervously. Who is he talking to? The crowd in the café was loud, but because the window had been propped open, bits and pieces of the one-sided conversation seeped in.
“I don’t know what to say…. Well, I’m a little speechless right now, I guess…. I understand, but I wasn’t planning to…All right, I’ll give it some thought…. I’ll call you…yes.”
I nervously stuffed a bite into my mouth when he returned to the counter.
“Sorry,” he said.
My curiosity swelled. “Something important?”
“Just my…sister. She needed some business advice.”
“Oh,” I replied. It didn’t add up, but I decided not to press him. If he had a secret, he’d reveal it in time.
After lunch, we walked through the Market, stopping at the park overlooking the bay. I could smell salmon grilling on alder planks at a nearby restaurant. Seagulls patrolled the salty air above, swooping down to accept scraps of food and bread that tourists offered. Dominic leaned against the guardrail. “Can we talk about something?”
“Sure,” I said, leaning back beside him. Our arms touched.
“What you said, back there,” he said. “About the baby.”
My eyes met his.
“It seems”—he ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the proper word—“wrong that your husband isn’t there for you right now after what you went through.”
Dominic was right, at least in a sense. On paper, Ethan’s behavior appeared despicable. Wife loses baby, followed by midlife crisis, followed by reconciliation with ex-girlfriend. In my heart, however, I knew that I was just as much to blame. I’d pulled away from him, too. In my grief, I’d frozen, shut him out. And just as my heart was starting to thaw, it was too late.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, “he should have been there for you.” He paused, turning to me. “I would have been there for you.”
He draped his arm around me. I didn’t pull away.
Chapter 15
VERA
The morning light streamed inside the window as I opened my eyes. I hated the feel of the silky sheets on my naked skin, hated the feel of Lon’s rough leg on mine even more. I peeled my body away from his hot, moist skin and sat up, wrapping a sheet over my body. He snored so loudly, the pillowcase quivered with each rise and fall of his chest.
My dress and undergarments lay on the floor beside the bed. I’d died a little inside each time Lon removed a piece of clothing. I cringed, remembering the heaviness of his hands, fumbling to unfasten a button, only to resort to ripping it in eager frustration. I had numbed the pain with champagne. Too much champagne. And now my head spun. I closed the bathroom door and vomited into the toilet, purging the contents of my stomach and the memory of last night. I felt a sudden urge to bathe, to wash every breath, every fingerprint of Lon’s from my body. I turned on the faucet and watched as the water fell like raindrops from the steel showerhead, ricocheting off the marble tiles. I’d polished hundreds of showers, maybe even this one, in suites at the hotel, scrubbing the grout with precision. Estella was a stickler about grout.
I lathered my body with soap, but even with every inch of my skin covered in a thick film of bubbles, I still felt filthy. Tainted. I scrubbed harder, until my hand cramped and I dropped the bar of soap. My lip quivered as the tears came. I couldn’t stop them. I prayed that Lon wouldn’t hear my cries. The water rushed over me, and after a while, I couldn’t differentiate between the shower’s stream and my tears.
I closed my eyes and Daniel’s face appeared again, calling to me, comforting me. I remembered why I was there. I turned off the shower with new strength, patting myself dry with a fluffy cotton towel that waited on the rack. I selected a dress from the closet and put it on. As I waited for Lon to wake up, I sat by the window, thinking about Daniel, and his father.
Four Years Prior
Charles kissed my neck, and I smiled, rolling over to face him. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said, tracing my face with his index finger.
I looked away shyly. Was last night a dream? We both looked up when we heard a knock at the bedroom door.
“Breakfast is ready, sir.” The muffled male voice sounded like the steward from last night.
“Thank you,” Charles said, sitting up. He walked to the bathroom and returned with a fluffy white robe. “Will you be comfortable in this?”
I nodded. “As long as we don’t have any breakfast guests.”
“Just us,” he said.
I grinned, slipping into the robe, and followed Charles out to the front room.
“Will you take breakfast on the terrace, sir?”
I looked down at my feet, not wanting to make eye contact with the steward. What does he think of me?
“No,” Charles said. “There’s a breeze this morning. The table will be fine.”
“As you wish,” the man said, distributing the contents of two silver platters onto the table. I eyed the glasses of orange juice. We could get oranges in Seattle, but grapefruit were harder to come by. Last year I’d saved my tip money for a whole week and bought a single grapefruit. It had cost a fortune, but I’d felt very fancy slicing into its thick skin, until I discovered that the flesh inside was rotten.
The steward bowed and let himself out, and I relaxed a little when he did.
“I want to do this every day,” Charles said, smiling at me from across the table.
“Me too,” I said.
I took a sip of orange juice, taking in its tangy sweetness. I wished I could share some with Caroline and the others. I thought about tucking a croissant in my pocket for Georgia. She’d always wanted to try one.
“I was wondering,” Charles said between bites of omelet. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m afraid I have to work,” I said.
“Work?”
“Yes. It’s a little thing one does to earn a living,” I said sarcastically.
“Very funny,” he said playfully. He looked at me for a long moment. “What if you didn’t have to work again?”
“What do you mean?”
He placed his hand on mine. “What if—”
The hinge of the door squeaked. Someone was coming into the suite. I felt like sinking my head deeper into the robe and hiding under the table, especially when I saw who it was: Charles’s sister, Josie. A maid followed behind her, carrying a dozen shopping bags.
“Charles?” she said with arched eyebrows. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” he countered. “I thought you were in Vancouver on a shopping trip with Mother.”
“We came home yesterday,” she said, walking toward us. “I was just picking up some things in town, and I thought I’d stop…” She paused the moment she recognized me. I could see the look of astonishment in her eyes.
“Josie, you remember Vera,” Charles said, as if there was nothing awkward about reacquainting his sister with me, while I was clad in a bathrobe. “Vera Ray.”
“Of course,” she sneered, staring at me for a moment longer than was comfortable. In the morning light, I noticed a familiar quality I had missed at the dance marathon. Where had I seen her before? “Yes, Vera, from the dance hall.”
“Hello,” I managed. I wished I’d decided to dress before breakfast. The robe was a terrible mistake.
“Well,” Josie huffed. “Clearly I’m interrupting an intimate moment, so I’ll go.” She eyed the envelope of cash on the side table, the one Charles had given me the night before for the widow in my building. What must she think of that? I prayed that Charles would explain, but he ignored his sister’s shocked expression and continued eating.
“See you,” he simply said. The maid followed with Josie’s parcels. The door slammed behind them.
I spent eight more glorious weeks with Charles before the fairy tale came hurtling to an abrupt end. There were gifts—one night at dinner, he slid
a sapphire bracelet around my wrist—flowers, trips, phone calls. It was enough to make my roommates green with envy.
Even so, I waited to tell him about the baby. I’d known about the pregnancy for almost two weeks, and I wanted to give it more time to be certain. I knew he’d be overjoyed. We were having a child together. A child conceived in love. And yet, I worried. Everything was perfect, and I feared the news could change that.
And then, one night in the hotel suite, he knelt down and asked me to marry him. I said yes, of course. He might as well have been a boy from the factories; I’d have married him anyway. I had fallen in love with his goodness, his heart, not his money. And when he gazed into my eyes, I almost told him about the baby right then and there, but the nausea had subsided, and I worried I’d miscarried. I couldn’t bear to think of telling him I had lost his child. So I waited.
“It’s about time you meet my family,” he said. “Why don’t you come for dinner at the house tonight?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling apprehensive about the previous interactions with Josie.
“They’ll love you.”
I scrunched my nose. “I’m not so sure.”
“You’re worried about Josie, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Well, don’t,” he said. “You’re the woman I love, and that’s that.”
I nestled my head into the fold of his shirt, breathing in the comforting scent of pipe tobacco and cologne.
“You make me so happy, Vera.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I do?”
“You do. I love your strength.” He traced my nose with his fingertip. “You’re a force. You can look at me with those eyes and make me question everything I ever believed about the world.” He placed his hand over my heart. “But, here, inside, you have so much love. It beams from you.”
I grinned playfully. “You’re sure your parents wouldn’t rather you marry a society girl?”
“I can assure you, my love,” he said, inching his face closer to mine, “I would rather banish myself to the farthest corner of Alaska than marry a society girl.”
“All right,” I conceded. “I’ll meet your parents. But only if you really believe it’s a good idea.” I tucked my hand in his. He kissed my palm. “Have you told them yet? About our engagement?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I think I’ll surprise them tonight.”
I fussed over what to wear for hours before Charles picked me up that night. Caroline’s red dress seemed too tawdry for a dinner at the home of my future in-laws; besides, it fit too tightly. I wasn’t far along, but Caroline and the other girls had made suspicious comments about the few pounds I’d gained. I eyed my old blue dress critically. Much too drab. I didn’t want to pretend to be anyone I wasn’t, and yet I needed them to accept me. It was a delicate dance. Eventually, I settled on the yellow frock Charles had purchased for me weeks ago. I’d worn it on many of our dates. I hoped he hadn’t tired of it.
I retied the sash a dozen times in the car on the drive to his parents’ home. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the ribbon to hang properly.
“You look fine,” Charles said, sensing my anxiety.
“I just want tonight to go well,” I said, turning to him.
“It will,” he assured me, wrapping a lock of my hair around his finger.
I pulled back. “Careful,” I said. “You’ll ruin my hair.”
He disobediently sank his hands deeper into my scalp.
“You’re incorrigible,” I said.
I’d been so distracted by my dress, and my hair, and my worries that I hadn’t paid attention to where we were, but we’d been driving for several miles, so we must have traveled a ways from downtown. Charles turned the car between two stone pillars—the entrance, according to a placard, to Windermere.
I’d heard of the privileged community, of course. Before her death, my mother had cared for the children of the wealthy inside this very neighborhood. And Georgia looked after the children of a wealthy family who lived within. She caught a ride on the milk truck every morning at five, which deposited her at the home just before the children woke. Her employer, a stern woman who slept until noon each day, complained that the truck soured Georgia’s clothes. The woman made her change into a uniform in the servants’ quarters before entering the main residence.
“So you grew up in this neighborhood?” I said, admiring the well-appointed homes, a mansion with a gabled roof to our right, a Victorian estate to our left. I wished Charles would slow the car so I could study each with greater attention. I’d never seen such elaborate dwellings.
“Born and raised, I’m afraid,” he said, as though the revelation marred his record. I admired the carefully tended gardens on either side of the road, not a weed in sight. A row of azaleas, their blooms a symphony of crimson, begged to be noticed, but Charles kept his eyes on the road, oblivious to their beauty. “When I turned eighteen, I couldn’t wait to fly the coop,” he continued.
“Why?” I asked wistfully, intoxicated by the neighborhood’s beauty.
“I guess I just came to despise it all,” he said. “The way everyone pretends to be so perfect.” He looked at me for a moment before turning back to the road. “I can assure you, what goes on inside those homes is far from perfect.”
He didn’t have to tell me that; I already knew. Mother had recounted a story of a disturbed little girl she cared for in this very neighborhood years ago. The child had taken a candlestick to her mother’s dressing room curtains and burned them so badly, she almost set the whole house ablaze.
He turned onto a side street, where the houses appeared even more extravagant, then veered the car down a long driveway. At the very end was a gate, where a man in a black suit stood. “Good evening, Mr. Charles,” he said, tipping his cap and swinging the gate open. Charles proceeded around the gravel-lined circular drive, parked the car, and got out to open my door.
“I want to introduce you to Old Joe,” he said to me. “Joseph!” he shouted to the man at the gate. “Did you miss me?”
The older man with graying hair smiled heartily. “Welcome home, Mr. Charles,” he said, reaching for a rake to resettle the disturbed gravel. I marveled at Charles’s world—a foreign place where servants appeared around every corner, making sure every pebble in your wake was returned to its rightful place.
I looked up at the house—so beautiful, so perfect, it frightened me. “It looks like a…palace,” I said under my breath, entranced by its grandeur.
“Mother saw a château in France she liked and Father had his architect reproduce it,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed by the obvious opulence of his family’s whims.
Twin cypress trees framed the entryway, nearly brushing up against the slate roof, where a massive chimney presided. I surveyed the handsome stonework that made up the residence’s thick, commanding walls, crowned by intricate cornices. A pair of urns bracketed the front door. Each held emerald green boxwoods clipped and trimmed into perfect spirals.
“Charles!” A woman with outstretched arms approached from the front door. Her ivory dress swished as she walked. I immediately noticed her tiny waist, accentuated by a wide blue sash. Her upswept hair struck a regal note.
“Mother,” Charles said, leaning in as she took both of his hands in hers before kissing each of his cheeks. I waited for her gaze to turn to me, and it did.
“Why, Charles,” she said, “who is this?”
“This is Vera,” he said, beaming with pride. “Vera Ray.”
I held out my hand and prayed she wouldn’t notice my chapped, red fingers, raw from the washbasin at the restaurant and nicked by one too many paring knives. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Her skin felt like cool white velvet against mine. I wished I’d taken the time to soak my hands in bacon drippings, the way Caroline had advised. Now I’d pay for it.
“You may call me Opal,” she said, casting a glance at my shoes. The dress may ha
ve been couture, thanks to Charles, but the shoes were undeniably shabby. My forehead began to perspire. Is the hole in my right shoe or my left? I took a guess and wedged my right toe behind the heel of my left. I didn’t dare look down at my feet, which would only draw more attention to the offending heels. To think I had saved almost three months’ wages to put a pair of black leather pumps on layaway at Frederick and Nelson. Charles would buy them for me in an instant, of course. But I didn’t ask him for things. It didn’t feel right.
“I’ve been so looking forward to introducing Vera to the family,” Charles said, kissing my hand lightly.
“How…charming,” Opal said, her voice a few octaves higher on the word charming. Her smile quickly disappeared and her eyes narrowed. I felt clumsy in her gaze. “I believe you’ve already met Josephine.”
I recalled the strained circumstances under which I had encountered Josie, Charles’s sister. Twice. “Yes,” I said, certain my cheeks had flushed to a cherry red.
“Well,” Opal continued, “I’m glad you dropped in, son. Will you stay for dinner?”
“Yes, of course,” Charles said. “Is Father here?”
“He’s in his study,” she said. “I’ll have Greta ring him.”
Ring him. I marveled at the way they regarded one another with such formality. Can’t she just dash down the hall to the study and call him up?
We followed Opal inside. The instant Charles held out his outerwear, a housekeeper stepped forward to retrieve the garment as it fell from his fingertips.
“Greta will take your wrap, Ms. Ray,” Opal said. She spoke to me slowly, as if to a child.
I nodded, letting the green shawl slip from my shoulders. I’d made it myself from scrap linen Caroline had brought home from the factory. At the time, I’d thought it rivaled any of the fine wraps I’d seen in shop windows. But inside Charles’s family home, it seemed more suitable as a dust rag. I nervously handed it to the housekeeper, who looked at me curiously. “Thank you,” I said, awed by the home’s interior. We passed through a long hallway lined with oil paintings. Their subjects depicted a comfortable life, in which pampered terriers lounged on sofas, country houses nestled among rolling hills, and women socialized beneath parasols. The hallway wended toward a large room with a grand piano and windows overlooking an enormous lawn outstretched to a lake.